The Trials Of Mr Bilbo Baggins
by illyria-pffyffin
Summary: Bilbo Baggins was worried about what would become of his beloved Bag End after his death. He obviously did not like the idea of the S.B.'s occupying it. Bilbo tried a lot of ideas to prevent this from happening, until he met a lad named Frodo Baggins.
1. Default Chapter

Author's Note:  My profound and heartfelt thanks to Arathlithiel for proofing this story and generally encouraging me to post this in fanfiction.net.  

 THE TRIALS OF MR BILBO BAGGINS

**19th March, 1366 SR**

Those confounded Sackville-Bagginses were at it again.  I met them today at a party at the old Boffin's place, and they had their brat Lotho with them.  Smirking all over the place were they, those Sackville-Bagginses, throwing dirty looks at me, and smugly stroking that stupid lad's head almost all through the party.  Took away all the mirth and joy of the party, I should say.  I couldn't entirely escape the implied message that since I have no heir, Bag End will certainly go to them on the day of my death.  What a loathsome thought!  They and that imp of theirs will wreck the whole place up!  Something must be done immediately!

Thought up a new party song.  Wrote half a page half the morning then tore it up in the afternoon.  

**23rd September, 1366 SR**

I suppose it was for the best.  I knew it was impossible from the start.  Myrtle Bolger is a nice lass.  But she can never understand me, and I can never be content living with her.  Oh, how I fumed when she told me to put a lid on my tall tale telling.  Tall tale!  Imagine that!  What am I supposed to do then?  Lie about going with Gandalf and the Dwarves to the Lonely Mountain?  Lie about Smaug and the Elves of Rivendell?  "We don't wish to attract too much attention, Bilbo dear," she said.  "People think you are really most queer sometimes, talking of Elves and dragons that way."  Well, it was nice of her to consent to my courting her, an old, "queer" hobbit like me.  But I can't go on now.  It is folly.  Hopeless.  I suppose I have to learn to accept the fact that I will die heirless after all, and the Sackville-Bagginses are going to inherit Bag End.  It's a very hard lesson to swallow, make no mistake.

Still have not found a word that rhymes nicely with "dwarves".  Wrote two pages, was in high spirit, but ran out of ink. 

**28th February, 1367 SR**

My fifth night in Brandy Hall.  Cousin Drogo celebrated his wedding anniversary with the Mistress Primula three days ago.  Such fanfare and merriment!  And what a place!  There were Tooks, Bagginses and Brandybucks beyond count, and folks from other families.  It seemed that the whole of Buckland showed up for the party.  The hall was simply packed to the ceiling.  And what food! Old Rory certainly knows how to entertain guests.  Drogo plans to stay in Brandy Hall until autumn before going back to Hobbiton.  I can understand his decision.  

Added another verse to the party song.  I think I am going to sing it at Cousin Rosamunda's birthday party next week.  If they invite me to come.  But I think, in fact, I believe, they will.  After all, they are Tooks.


	2. Days in the Shire

**15th October, 1367 SR**

Another messy, botched romance.  I will certainly advise any hobbit never to take up with the Goodbodies as they are the greediest band of hobbits there are.  Bella Goodbody is nice enough, but her father is simply impossible.  He acted as though by marrying his daughter I ought to start feeding and housing the whole Goodbody clan.  "I am sure it would be no trouble for you, Mr. Baggins," he said nonchalantly.  "After all, I believe you do still have some of that dragon loot you claimed in the Lonely Mountain."  Oh, the nerve he had!  Ah, well, I should have known better.  Besides, come to think of it, it would not be fair at all for Bella if I married her simply because I wanted an heir to inherit Bag End.

Made a nice song about pumpkin pie, inspired by a very wholesome pie sent up by Mistress Bell Gamgee.  Even the crumbs were heavenly.

**10th January, 1368 SR**

I went to the forest last night and who should I meet but some fair Elves on their way to the Grey Havens?  It was wonderful.  I was strongly and somewhat painfully reminded of my brief stays in Rivendell.  How terribly I miss it!  How I would love to go there again and breath in their music and beauty.  My feet are itching to simply walk out of Bag End, hatless and without a handkerchief like the last time, and trudge out to Rivendell and be merry and content again.  But the thought of Lobelia charging into Bag End, auctioning my possessions and claiming the place as hers _yet again_ stopped me from being rash.

Planned to finish that part of the book that tells of Mirkwood and its Elves, but was too unhappy to write.  

**6th July, 1368 SR**

Terrible night.  And yet very exciting in a sense.  I couldn't sleep last night, this being nearly the peak of summer and even at night it was exceptionally warm, so I went for a walk.  And before I knew it I was already under the trees in the forest and dreaming of the days I spent traveling with Gandalf and Thorin's troop.  But my thought was cut short by the sounds of a scuffle.  It was frightening.  I definitely heard the sounds of knife (or was it sword?) clashing, a couple of arrows flying and finding targets, and grunts that were positively orcish.  Orcs?  In The Shire?  It couldn't be!  Then I saw two men, tall, cloaked and hooded, dragging away the dead body of something that stank suspiciously of orc.  They passed right in front of me.  I thought they did not notice me, until one of the men stopped a few steps from where I was hiding, and said softly, "Next time, Bilbo, when you feel the urge to walk under the stars in the forest, do bring that Elven blade of yours.  It might give you a few moments head start if orcs are around."  I was too astonished to speak.  When I'd gathered all my wits, the two mysterious men had disappeared.  Could they be the Dunedain of the North that Gandalf once spoke to me about?  What were they doing in the Shire?  Oh, if only Gandalf were here so I could ply him with questions!  As it is, I can't tell anyone about what I saw last night.  They might not believe me.  

Couldn't finish the song about the escape from The Elven King of Mirkwood.  I still couldn't find a word that rhymes well with "barrel".


	3. A Lad Named Frodo

**24th September, 1368 SR**

A letter came from Brandy Hall this morning.  Cousin Drogo and his wife Primula were blessed with a son on 22nd September.  On my birthday!  What a wonderful present!  They named him Frodo.  I sent gifts for them, a silver mirror for Primula, a rattle of red, yellow and green stones (one of the toys I ordered from the dwarves to stock up for my nieces and nephews' birthdays) for Frodo and a silver pen for Drogo, to remind him to write to me more often.  It becomes very apparent that he prefers to stay at Brandy Hall than in Hobbiton nowadays, no doubt owing to the generous table of Old Rory, who took after his father Old Gorbadoc, in this matter. But to be honest it is a bit hard on me, because now almost all I see of the Bagginses around here is Otho and his dreadful Lobelia and Lotho.

Thought of making a song about hobbit lads and lasses.  Isn't it funny that Frodo rhymes quite nicely with Bilbo?

**11th February, 1376 SR**

I spent a fortnight at Brandy Hall and had a jolly time.  As usual, the food was exceptionally good, and the wine even more so.  Cousin Drogo is certainly doing very well there, he is definitely rounder than the last time I saw him.  The place was crawling with hobbit children, and after supper I had them entranced with the story of the Mirkwood Elves and the giant spiders.  Mistress Amaranth scolded me, saying that I would surely give those children nightmares.  And sure enough, when I was nearly asleep, one of them crawled up to my bed.  It was Frodo.  

"Tell me again of the Elves, Bilbo," he whispered.  

"What of them?" I said sleepily.  

"Their songs.  How they look.  How they speak," he said breathlessly, he was that excited.  

"That'll take ages to tell, my lad," I said, pushing him away.  "In the morning, in the morning."  

"Can you teach me Elvish speech, Bilbo?" he said, undeterred.  "Please, Bilbo."

"What would you need Elvish speech for?" I said.

"I'm going to go on an adventure someday, Bilbo.  Just like you," he said, and he was smiling very broadly under the candlelight.  "I'm going to fight the spiders and go to Rivendell, like you.  I have to know Elvish."

"Oh, good," I smiled vaguely, patting his curls.  "We'll start tomorrow then."

"Give me an Elvish word now, Bilbo, for a start," he begged.  "I shall not sleep until you do."

"Oh, dear.  You don't give up that easily, do you?" I groaned as I tried to remember something Elvish with my sleepy brain.  "All right.  Listen.  'Elen sila lúmenn' omentielvo'.  Now say it."

He repeated solemnly after me.  After three repetitions he had it right, he seemed to have the knack to pronounce Elvish words correctly. 

"What does it mean, Bilbo?" he asked eagerly.  

"'A star shines on the hour of our meeting,'" I told him briskly.  "Now, off to bed you go."

"Elen sila lúmenn' omentielvo, Bilbo," he whispered in my ear and he kissed me gently on the cheek and went away still repeating the Elvish words.  I lay with my eyes open for hours.  

Wrote a stupid song about being lonely, but threw it away.  It was disgusting


	4. Letters from Buckland

**18th September, 1378**

My seventh day in Brandy Hall.  Cousin Drogo can barely contain his excitement about Frodo's 10th birthday party, especially about the food.  Frodo has been pestering me ever since I arrived, asking me questions and talking to me endlessly, hoping that I would be caught unguarded and drop hints about his birthday present.  I've been teaching him letters.  We spent half the mornings writing.  Frodo caught on to letters easily.  His handwriting is firm and flowing.  He begged me to teach him runes, but I said I wouldn't do such a thing until he could write a presentable letter to me in Tengwar.  He sulked and said he didn't need me to teach him things anyway.  But tonight I found a letter under my pillow.

_"Dear Bilbo,"_ it read, _"You asked me to write a letter, and here it is.  I don't know what to write so I'm just going to tell you a secret.  Do you know Farmer Maggot out in Marish?  Yesterday I got a bit lost and wandered onto his farm.  And you know what I found there?  In the borders of his farm there were a lot of sweet smelling mushrooms, the juiciest kind that I like best.  I gathered all I could before I had to run away because of the dogs.  I cooked the mushroom near the woods.  It got a bit burnt, but still very delicious.  I didn't share it with anyone, I hope you don't mind.  Well, that's my secret.  Please don't tell anyone about it._

_Love,_

_Frodo Baggins_

_PS: I'm sorry I was angry this afternoon and didn't have tea and supper with you.  _

_PPS: So, are you going to teach me runes now?_

_PPPS: If you want, I can get you some of those mushrooms too._

_PPPPS: We have to cook it ourselves though, in the woods, or everyone will want a bite and we'll have nothing left."    _

Well, there are some mistakes, and he spilled ink here and there on the paper.  But it was wonderful.  I shall cherish it above the _mithril_ coat I risked my life to get.

Thought up a song about mushrooms.  Am going to teach it to Frodo tomorrow.  It is going to be _our secret._

**28th August, 1380 SR**

Cousin Drogo and his wife Primula died yesterday, drowned while boating in the Brandywine.  I am on my way to Brandy Hall now, stopping for a half-hearted luncheon at Frogmorton.  I keep wondering how Frodo will cope with the loss of both of his parents in so tragic an accident.  He's only but twelve.  Whatever will happen to the lad now?  

No song seems to help now.  I am so worried about Frodo.  Never knew I could feel this way about a child.

**30th August, 1380 SR**

Well, at least he didn't cry during the funeral, I wouldn't know what to do if he had wept openly.  He merely looked sad and forlorn.  He was very quiet, eating very little at mealtimes.  Nobody seems to know what to say to him and people speak in hushed tones whenever he's around.  He is left alone most of the time but he doesn't seem to mind.  The most heart-wrenching thing happened after lunch.  Some of the children were restless from the stifling summer heat and the solemn atmosphere, and one suddenly piped out, "Oh, let's go and drown ourselves in the Brandywine!"  Somebody, I think it was Amaranth, shushed him and everyone glanced anxiously at Frodo.  But he did not seem to notice, he was reading one of the books I gave him for his eleventh birthday.  He was very, very pale, though.

They say children bounce off from grief faster than adults.  I don't think it is fast enough.  


	5. Of Adopting Frodo

**1st September, 1380 SR**

Very early in the morning.  I couldn't sleep after what happened last night so I decided to write this down.   Frodo came to my bedroom last night.  He woke me up and said:

"Is it true, Bilbo, that Elrond is a master of healing?"

"Yes," I said sleepily.  "Why do you ask?"

"Can he heal death?" he whispered again.

I was so astounded  that I sat up straight and looked at him.  Under the candlelight his eyes were glittering fiercely but there were tear stains on his cheeks.  I shook my head slowly.  "No.  Death can't be cured, Frodo."

He drew in a trembling breath and looked away.  "They live…they live forever, the Elves, don't they?  They don't die."

I didn't know what to say.

"Do you like to swim, Bilbo?" he asked after a while.  

I nodded slowly.  "Not that much.  I like to plunge in once in a while though, when it's really hot."

He nodded and there was a very long and uncomfortable silence as he struggled to hold back tears, looking away and blinking fiercely.  Finally he looked at me again.  

"Be careful when you swim, Bilbo dear, will you?" he whispered.  "Don't…don't get drowned or anything."

I couldn't say anything, I could only nod.  

"Can I sleep with you tonight?" he said in a very small voice.

"Of course," I said, and realized my voice was hoarse and dry.  

He climbed onto my bed and curled up next to me.  I covered him with a blanket and soon he fell asleep.  

He is still sleeping now, on my bed.  Twice I heard him calling his mother in a dream.  I am glad he can't see me crying over my paper.

**30th September, 1380 SR**

I will go back to Hobbiton early tomorrow morning.  It is hard to leave Frodo, though.  I know the Brandybucks are going to take good care of him.  Still, I wish I didn't have to leave him here.  

"He will be well taken-care of here, Bilbo," said Amaranth.  "His mother's family is here.  He will not be lonely."

Well, that hurt a lot.  I hope she wasn't criticizing my preference to live alone in Bag End.  

"I'm going now, but I'll write often," I said to Frodo after supper before he went to bed.  He nodded, but said nothing.  "Don't forget to practice your runes and letters."

I wanted to say something else.  Something to cheer him up, to lift his broken spirit up, but I couldn't find any.  

Making up a song about parting doesn't help.  It only makes things harder.

**1st October, 1380 SR (on the ferry crossing the Brandywine)**

Frodo came into my room last night.  He woke me up and simply said, "Thank you for everything, Bilbo" and kissed me and left.  I went away when the day was still dark and Frodo was still asleep.  I didn't trust myself not to cry if I had to say goodbye to him.

**3rd October, 1380 SR**

Can't a hobbit have peace in this world?  I've only gone for a month but Lobelia had started a rumor that I was thinking of moving to Buckland, or something to that effect.  Master Hamfast the gardener said that she came twice and inquired when I would be back.  

Felt too angry to continue my book.  Even thought of really leaving Bag End and moving to Buckland to get some peace.  But that will make Lobelia happy and I will not have that.

**1st November, 1384 SR**

I stopped at Buckland on my way home from Rivendell.  I was feeling most rested, full of tales and songs to share with the Bucklanders.    I had also made sizable additions to my book and was eager to show it to Frodo.  But when I arrived and asked for him, he was nowhere to be seen.  

"He does that a lot these days," said Amaranth.  "Disappearing.  Running from chores, I suppose."

"Have you ever thought that maybe he has to run away sometimes because you give him too many chores?" I asked sharply.

"Bilbo Baggins!" exclaimed Amaranth.  "Don't you tell us how to raise children, you who have none of your own!  What do you know of it?  Would you prefer him to grow up spoiled and lazy?  Not everyone, Bilbo, happens to have a hoard of ill-gotten gold like you!"

"That's uncalled for, Amaranth!" I said, becoming angry in my turn.  And I probably would have said more scathing things had it not been for Frodo, who suddenly burst into the room.  He was out of breath, his face pale and his clothes dirty.  I haven't seen him for almost two years now since my short visit a year after his parents' death, and it seems he has grown somewhat taller but thinner.  Why, he was nothing but two huge eyes and a mop of dusty hair.  

"Frodo Baggins!" said Amaranth in horror.  "What have you been up to now?  Look at you!"

Frodo's eyes met mine and I saw terror in his eyes.  

"Go and wash yourself before sitting down for tea, unless you want to have yours in the barn," said Amaranth.  "Cousin Bilbo is here to see you but look at you now, not even fit for a kitchen rag."

Frodo looked down at his dirty clothes and then glanced at me shamefacedly.

"It's all right, Amaranth," I said.  "Let the lad catch his breath first."

Amaranth shot me another look that said, quite plainly, "you-know-nothing-about-raising-children-Bilbo-Baggins-so-keep-your-nose-out-of-this".

"I'm sorry," said Frodo as he turned around and went out of the dining room.  There was an icy silence as we waited for him to return, Amaranth kept snorting and looking very red in the face.   

When Frodo returned, looking much cleaner and less pale, he came and sat beside me.  Amaranth poured him his tea and gave him a slice of pie (I don't know if I was mistaken about this, but I did think the slice was somewhat thinner than those she gave her other nieces and nephews).  

"Here you are, Frodo," she said.  "Chicken and mushroom, with a lot of cheese, just the way you like it."

Frodo muttered his thanks but looked at the pie with dismay.  I supposed it was because of the size.  But then he didn't touch the pie at all, and after finishing his cup of tea (A single cup!  That was completely unheard of!) he excused himself and I didn't see him again until dinner.  His appetite was better then, but he was still unusually quiet.   

 Then, late at night (I've probably seen it coming, so despite my weariness, I did not sleep too deeply, and a single whispered call from Frodo was enough to wake me up), he came to my room.  He sat at the foot of my bed, facing me, looking sheepish.

"I heard you have just returned from Rivendell," he began.  "What news of the Elves?"

"First of all," I said, "What news of _you!  You looked as though you had wolves pursuing you this afternoon."_

He chuckled embarrassedly.  "Well, that wasn't entirely off the mark, Bilbo," he said.  "Though it wasn't wolves, but dogs, that went after me."

"Dogs?" I frowned. 

"Three of them," he continued solemnly.

"Whose dogs?" I asked.

"Farmer Maggot's," he said sheepishly.  

"What happened?" I said, dreading the answer.

"Well, I was trespassing again this afternoon," he explained shamefacedly.  "After mushrooms, as usual.  But this time he caught me, beat me and took me to his dogs."

He stopped, looking at his feet.  

"And?" I prodded.

"He said, to the dogs that is, that the next time they saw me they could…" he gulped, "…eat me.  Then he set the dogs loose and they chased me all the way to the ferry landing."

It was very hard not to laugh and look stern.  "Is that why you did not touch your mushroom pie at tea?" I said, trying very hard to sound firm.

Frodo nodded and shivered.  "It reminded me of the dogs," he said slowly.  "I don't think I shall ever get over the terror."

By this time my self control gave way and I burst out laughing.  Frodo stared at me, then laughed too.  "You will make a poor adventurer, Frodo," I said, wiping my eyes,  "if you lose your appetite over three mangy dogs."

He turned red in the face.  "Well, they didn't seem mangy to me then," he said.  "They looked positively hungry."

I couldn't help laughing again.  

We talked long into the night.  Frodo listened with wide-eyed wonder to everything I told him of my journey.  He seemed to drink in my words in great, thirsty gulps, pressing for details and questioning every single one of them.  It was great to have such an eager audience hanging on to every word I uttered.  It was when I heard the cock crowing that I realized that night was nearly ending.  

"Oh, dear," I said.  "You'd better head for your bed now.  I shouldn't have begun telling you my tales.  What would Amaranth say if she knew you've been here for hours while you should be sleeping.  Think what she'll say if you fall asleep on your breakfast porridge."

He laughed, "No need to worry, Bilbo.  I never oversleep.  I have a special knack of waking up just when meals are ready."

 "Yes," I said.  "But you're keeping me awake and I'm not as young nor strong as I used to."

His eyes widened.  "Oh, I'm so sorry.  Forgive me, dear Bilbo, I was being selfish," he got up and gave me a hug.  "I'm glad you're here, Bilbo.  Good night…or…good morning.  Sleep well."

He yawned, smiled and went for the door.  I watched his smallish figure disappear in the dark and sighed.

Despite what I told Frodo, I couldn't sleep.  I sat up for hours writing this.   I suppose it was halfway through it that I suddenly began to seriously think about adopting him.  

**2nd November, 1384 SR**

I've been thinking.  Adopting Frodo won't only mean that he'll live with me, but it'll also solve the problem of my heir, or my lack of one.  Adopting Frodo will mean that Lobelia and Lotho will never have Bag End.  What a perfect scheme!  

Have made a song about three mushroom-guarding dogs!

**3rd November, 1384 SR**

I brought up the topic of adoption delicately to Old Rory and Mistress Amaranth.  They flatly refused.  

"I know you're fond of the child, Bilbo," said Old Rory.  "And I know you have the where-with-all to give Frodo a good, secure life."

"But we also care about him, Bilbo," said Amaranth.  "And to be honest, we both feel it will be unwise to let him live with you."

"Why?" I asked, thoroughly perplexed.

"You lead an unusual life, Bilbo," said Old Rory bluntly.  "Visiting with the Elves.  Having dwarves and that strange wizard, Gandalf, coming over for tea and all.  And we still have not forgotten your sudden disappearance…"

"…and mysterious return." added Amaranth.

"What guarantee can you give us that you will not do it again and leave poor Frodo abandoned all alone in Hobbiton?  At least he has us here in Brandy Hall," Old Rory went on.

I tried very hard not to be angry.  "My roving days are over, Rory," I said as levelly as I could.  "I am intent on settling down now.  And I need a companion."

"You speak of your need.  What about Frodo's need?" said Amaranth.

"If he lives with me, he doesn't have to worry about his future," I said.  "His father left him little.  Frodo will be better off with me."

"Have you thought that maybe he doesn't want to go to Hobbiton?  He spent almost his entire childhood here," said Old Rory.

"He can always come and visit here," I said, trying to laugh.  "It is not as if I am taking him across the Sea."

The two hobbits flinched.  I knew I've made a mistake.  Speaking of the outside world is considered an unacceptable oddity, and I knew that what I said reminded the Brandybucks of that name people call me behind my back, "Mad Baggins."  

"Please think about it," I said, not wishing to make matters worse.  "For Frodo's sake."

Words that rhyme with "Rory": fury, gory, bury.  Nice combinations.  It's going to be a very satisfying song.  

**4th November, 1384 SR**

My desire to adopt Frodo took a sudden a turn in the opposite direction.  I realized that I wasn't thinking straight.  I don't have a clear idea of what having a child will demand of me.  I am painfully aware that while I love Frodo perhaps as much as I would have loved my own son had I had one, I don't know anything about the proper way of handling a young hobbit.

This understanding came in a painful way.  I was napping after a very big luncheon this afternoon (whatever opinion I have of Amaranth, she is without a doubt a very remarkable cook), when I heard the children screaming outside and they mentioned something about Frodo.  I jumped out of my bed and rushed outside.  I wasn't the first to be out, and already there was such a commotion, I couldn't see clearly what happened.   

 From one of the children I gathered that Frodo had been climbing a tree after a squirrel when a branch snapped from under him and he fell pell-mell to the ground.  I made my way through the crowd and found him in Amaranth's arms, his eyes were closed, and there was blood on his white face.  They carried him inside and Amaranth tended to his wound.  It wasn't big, but it bled a lot, and all I could do was watch from afar as Amaranth soothed him and bandaged his head.  He clung to her until he fell asleep and asked for her when he woke up.  He was feverish toward midnight and she sat by him, holding his hand and wiping his face with a wet cloth.  I slunk away to my bedroom and thought how foolish I was to think that I could take care of Frodo single-handedly.  

I shall go back to Hobbiton tomorrow, perhaps never to return here.


	6. A Letter from Frodo

**30th October, 1388 SR**

Two problems, TWO, turned up today.  One, Frodo sent me a letter.  

_"Dear Bilbo,"_ it read_, "Thank you for the gifts.  I especially like the box of fireworks.  We had a great time setting them up, and they made the Brandywine look as if it were a river of many-colored gems.  Thank the Dwarves for me, they are really most kind to make that beautiful belt with the jeweled buckle, and the pocket knife to go with it.  How did they know my size?  You should see me wear them.  I look positively splendid.  I was the envy of all the Brandybucks, especially the little ones.  Little Merry (Meriadoc, son of cousin Saradoc) was willing to trade all his hoard of candied plum and dried apples for the belt.  _

_But the present I enjoyed the most is your letters, Bilbo.  I read them many times until I'm afraid the ink will rub off and the writings fade. You always have such interesting stories of the people outside The Shire.  I wish life here were as full of adventures as yours.  It becomes tedious and boring sometimes.  I am not complaining.  Everybody is very kind and I love them dearly.  But I wish, sometimes, that I could go on adventures, too, like you, and come back with wonderful songs to sing and stories to tell.  No one understands how I want to go out and see the world.  They say that to wish to venture outside The Shire is foolish and reckless.  I wish they did not say that, because  I think you are neither foolish nor reckless.  I think you are very brave and clever, and I wish, more often now than before, that I can be like you.  _

_You write so seldom now, dear Bilbo, and you never visit.  It has been nearly four years since you last came to Brandy Hall.  Is something the matter?  I hope you're always in the best of health, but I can't help worrying.  I wish I could come and visit you.  I've never been outside Buckland before.  I miss speaking in Elvish with you, Bilbo.  I miss your merry and beautiful songs.  I really appreciate the gifts, but if you had given me nothing, and have come instead, I would have been so much, so much happier._

_Love,_

_Frodo Baggins"_

I know it is weak of me.  But I wept every time I read the letter and I've read it dozens of time since it arrived this morning.  Little Samwise Gamgee caught me blubbering when he came bringing in the potatoes.  He asked what was the matter, but I said nothing.  He went out, and a while later Master Hamfast came in, brewed me some tea and patted me on the back.  Then he sat in front of me and very patiently told me something that he had picked up in _The Ivy Bush.  He said that "some people" had been especially happy on my last birthday, which is the 98th.  He did not have to mention the names, I know who they are.   I know they simply can't wait for me to plop down and die.  And now that I am nearly a hundred, it seems that they think they don't have to wait much longer.  Master Hamfast told me that I still look hale and strong, but if I keep breaking down, the way I did today with Frodo's letter, people will start to talk behind my back, about how I had become senile and witless.  That was problem number two.  I was strongly reminded that to keep Bag End from Lobelia's greedy hands, I have to get myself an heir.  _

Meant to write a reply for Frodo, but can't think up excuses as to why I seldom write and never visit.  Maybe I am becoming senile and witless.


	7. Old Rory Wrote

**22nd August, 1389 SR**

Gandalf came for a brief visit, bringing much exciting news.  We talked all through tea and dinner and supper.  It was just like old times.  Only I can't help thinking a lot about Frodo and how he would love to hear the tales Gandalf told.  Then afterward, while we smoked and blew smoke rings outside, he asked:

"You are not quite yourself tonight, my dear Bilbo.  Is something wrong?"

"No, nothing, nothing," I muttered without thinking.  Then I remembered it was Gandalf I was speaking to.  He is my dearest friend.  If there is someone I can trust with my troubles, it is him.  So I told him of the Sackville-Bagginses and their ambition to invade Bag End, of Frodo and why I thought I couldn't adopt him.  Afterward, I felt a lot better, though I must say it was embarrassing telling Gandalf of my petty problems while he had more serious matters to think about.

But Gandalf did not laugh.  He thought for a while, then his eyes lit up and he said, "Well, Bilbo, I don't see why you should add another silver curl to your head thinking about this.  It's really simple.  All you have to do is adopt Frodo."

"But I told you, Gandalf, I can't.  I can't be a parent to him," I said.

"He is twenty now, Bilbo, right in the prime of his tweens," said Gandalf gently, his eyes twinkling.  "He is more than able to take care of himself, or even take care of you.  You really have nothing to worry about.  I don't think he wishes for a parent.  He wants a friend, someone who understands him.  And you are that person."

As always Gandalf's advice was sound and convincing.  So last night I wrote a long letter to Frodo and another to the Old Rory.  

Thought up another song about smoke rings!

**26th August, 1389 SR**

A letter from Old Rory.

_"Bilbo," _he wrote _"I will let Frodo live with you for a year.  If he enjoys it and wishes to stay longer, he may.  But you had better be true to your word and look after him well (not that he needs a lot looking after these days).  And I expect absolutely NO tramping around with conjurors, dwarves nor elves and absolutely NO seeking riches in dragon dens.  The lad has gone through a lot.  If you leave him and break his heart again, though I am generally a peace-loving hobbit, I will not hesitate to kill you, even if you are already dead.  The same goes if I find that he is unhappy living with you but you force him to stay.  I will make sure, Bilbo Baggins, that you die twice.  Remember that._

_Rorimac Brandybuck"_

I never knew he wrote so well.  There's more to the old Godfather than meets the eyes.


	8. Frodo, Otho and The Chicken Song

**1st September, 1389 SR**

Frodo sent me a letter.

_"Dear Bilbo" _he wrote. _"Do you really mean it?  Am I really to stay with you in Hobbiton?  And Old Rory has consented?  I can't believe it, Bilbo!  It's almost like a dream!  I can't wait until my birthday when you are going to take me to your place.  I'm packed already!  I don't care that I have to unpack almost daily to take out clean shirts and breeches.  I hope you won't mind if I give all of the presents you gave on my birthdays to my cousins, nephews and nieces here.  That way I won't have much to carry.  All your letters I kept, Bilbo, they are so much more valuable.  I've been dreaming of what we will do together once I move to Bag End.  Will you take me to see the Elves?  I've never been to Michel Delving, can we go there?  And I can't wait to learn new songs from you, dear Bilbo, and learn more Elvish.  I'm afraid you will have to teach me again, Bilbo, because I've forgotten most of what you taught me.  We can go for walks together.  We can even go and have adventures together!  Can we go to the Dale?  And the Lonely Mountain?  And Rivendell?  Dear Old Amaranth is always angry these days because I walk everywhere with my thoughts in the clouds and so lay havoc on a lot of innocent plates and cups and vases.  I think I will miss her a lot though, despite her vast wealth of sarcasm.  But never as much as I miss you Bilbo.  I am counting the day to 22nd September!_

_Impatiently,_

_Frodo Baggins"_

Planned to write a chapter on the eyries of the eagles, but sat outside, blowing smoke rings instead, re-reading Frodo's letter and dreaming about our time together.   It is a lovely night tonight.

**5th September, 1389 SR**

Otho Sackville-Baggins came this morning, brushed Old Master Hamfast aside and came barging in, completely ruining my second breakfast.  Without so much as a good morning, he said (shouted to be exact):

"What is this rumor going around, that you are taking a mongrel out of that rabbit warren in Buckland to be your heir!"

"Would you like to sit down, Otho?" I said.  "You are spitting all over my eggs."

"How dare you, you old fool!" he said, waving a fat fist.  "You can't have any heir, least of all someone as dubious as a Brandybuck!  I'm the legal heir to Bag End!"

"He is not a Brandybuck, Otho," I said, looking sadly at the food now laid to waste.  "He is Drogo's son, a Baggins.  His name is Frodo.  Frodo Baggins."

"Well, I never thought Drogo was much of a Baggins anyway, otherwise he would not have gone to the other side of Brandywine to marry that Brandybuck woman and gotten killed…"

"Otho, I must insist that you get out.  You have ruined my appetite and now you're being rude about a dear lamented Baggins," I stood up.  "Nothing you can say will change anything.  It is perfectly within my rights to adopt anyone related to me to be my heir.  Now, please, get out."

My hand was itching for Sting, I was _that mad._

"Mark you my words, Bilbo," Otho hissed as I pushed him none too gently outside.  "You are nearly a hundred and you will die before that brat comes of age, and Bag End _will be mine!"_

"We'll see, Otho, we'll see," I said.  "Have a pleasant morning!" 

And I closed the door with a bang behind him.  Then I laughed, I laughed until my stomach hurt.  It was worth a ruined breakfast to see Otho as purple as an overripe plum.

Thought up a song about chickens chasing Otho for wasting eggs, but then dropped the song altogether.  The chickens don't deserve to be in the same song with Otho.


	9. Preparing for Frodo

**7th September, 1389 SR  **

Old Hamfast began to tidy up a room for Frodo.  It will have a window looking east, like mine, a huge bed, like mine, and a fireplace, like mine, with two comfortable chairs in front of it, like mine.

I never realized the sound of hammer and wood saw and chisel and lathe can be so musical.  

**11th September, 1389 SR**

The papers are signed (by seven witnesses in red ink!) and ready and kept hidden in a place not even the cunning Lotho could figure out.  A great relief indeed, worthy of a bottle or two of the Old Winyards wine.  

Couldn't concentrate on book.  Thought of putting it aside until Frodo is finally here.  Thought up a song about occasions that required the Old Winyards, considered putting in Lobelia's death, but re-considered and deigned it would be too wicked, even for her.

**22nd September, 1389 SR**

Our, Frodo's and mine, first official birthday together.  It was in Brandy Hall, so not as satisfactory as I wished because obviously Bag End is much more superior for parties, but it would have to suffice for now.  Frodo was grinning nonstop and all his cousins looked at him with envious eyes.  I saw the jeweled belt around one scowling lad of around eight.  It was obviously still too big for him, but after the birthday feast, it fitted better somehow.  Amaranth kept pulling me aside and said things like:

"He likes his tea hot, with just a little honey and a lot of milk.  But never, never give him raw milk.  It gives him an upset stomach."

…and…

"He loves beets, do you have that in your garden?  You can pull some up from my garden before you leave."

…and…

"Make sure the sheets on his bed are changed at least once a week."

…and…

"Make sure he stays away from chickens.  They give him rashes."

…and…

"Remind him to write to me at least once a month."

Taught the Brandybucks some new songs and we danced in the crowded room, round and round the table.  Even Old Rory joined in, hopping on to the table and murdering some prized bowls and plates.  I've not had so much fun with birthdays for a long time!  


	10. Elen sila lúmenn’ omentielvo

**30th September, 1389 SR**

HOME!  It was nice to see the amazement in Frodo's eyes when I took him on a tour around Bag End.  He couldn't believe such a large _smial_ was occupied by me…excuse me…_us_ alone.  It was nice to see the way he treated everyone with equal politeness, praising Mistress Bell's cooking and getting along quite nicely with the rest of the Gamgees.  It was nice to have tea with someone, talking and laughing endlessly.  It wasn't so cold and silent anymore in this old _smial_.

Only one thing ruined this perfect day.  Uninvited, Otho and Lobelia dropped in just before supper.    They strode in without waiting for my permission and saw Frodo standing near the table.

"So this is your heir, Bilbo," hissed Otho.

"Well done, Otho!  For once you understand something without my having to explain it to you," I said.  "Frodo, meet Otho and Lobelia Sackville-Bagginses.  Otho, Lobelia, this is Frodo, my nephew _and_ heir to Bag End."

"Frodo Baggins at your service and your family's," said Frodo, bowing a little.

"Well at least those queer Brandybucks taught you some manners," snorted Lobelia.  I could see a slight color rise to Frodo's cheeks.

"I bet you're happy, lad, eh?" said Otho, approaching Frodo, looking him up and down.  "Out of that rabbit burrow and into this place.  What did you do to ensnare the old hobbit, eh?  How long did the Brandybucks put you into this?"

"Put me into what?" said Frodo, there was an edge in his voice.

"Trapping Bilbo," Otho glanced at me out of the corner of his eyes.  "Perfect catch, eh?  Rich, old, heirless and mad.  The Brandybucks are going to roll in gold when he's dead and you become the master of Bag End.  Has he told you about the loot, yet, lad?"

Frodo took a deep breath, but his face remained calm.  He looked at Otho straight in the eyes.  "Yes.  Yes, he has," he said firmly.  "It's at your house.  Silver spoons if I'm not mistaken."

Otho was taken aback and Lobelia looked scandalized, turning first red, then violet, then a very ugly shade of purple.  I couldn't stop myself and started howling with laughter.

"Now if you can behave like decent hobbits," Frodo continued in an even voice, "we would love to ask you to join us for supper.  If you can't, I'd be happy to see you to the door."

"You…you..." Lobelia's eyes bulged abominably.  "You Brandybuck, you!"

"Thank you," Frodo bowed a little.  "The door's over there."

I took his cue and started to steer Lobelia out, while Frodo tackled Otho with surprising skill.  

"Thank you for coming," he said to a very angry Lobelia before closing the door.  We ran to the kitchen and laughed merrily all through supper.  I was so proud of him.

Or I thought I was proud of him then.  But then I learned that I knew little about what being proud is all about.  It was much later that I found out its true meaning.  I was nearly asleep, humming my favorite lullaby to myself, when my bedroom door creaked open and Frodo was there.

"What happened, lad?" I asked.  "Trouble sleeping in a new place?"

"No," he said.  He looked very thoughtful.  He came over to my bed and sat at the edge.  "You don't believe what they said, do you, Bilbo?"

"They who?" I said.

"The Sackville-Bagginses," he replied.

"Which part was it I am not supposed to believe?" I asked.

"The part about the Brandybucks using me to trap you and get your gold.  None of it is true."

"Well, I believe you," I said.  "I never listened to any of the S.B.'s chatters anyway.  You did the best thing too, ignoring them."

"Still…" he hesitated for a moment.  "I want you to know this.  I don't care if you're poor, Bilbo.  I don't care about Bag End and its treasures if there were indeed any.  I only care about you.  We can always live some place else, it won't matter."

There was something stirring in my heart like new leaves whispering in the spring wind.  I smiled.  "I like your spirit, lad.  But do you want to make Lobelia happy by leaving?"

He shook his head and grinned mischievously.

I got up and leapt out of the bed.  "I'm not that sleepy either," I lied.  "Grab your cloak.  We'll go for a walk."

We traipsed up the hills, talking and singing all the way.  Then suddenly we heard it, almost at the same time, the gentle, beautiful sound of Elves singing.  Frodo looked at me with eyes wide with astonishment.

"Bilbo…" he whispered.  "Are they…?"

"Yes, dear boy," I laughed.  "They're Elves."

We crept up to where the Elves were gathered around a fire.  The closer we came, the more beautiful the song was.  I didn't understand all the words, but the music created images inside my mind: cool, crystalline rivers; tall trees with leaves so close together; sunshine glittering like jewels between the branches.  It was a song of longing, of letting go.  The Elves were moving westward, forsaking Middle-Earth.  

I crept nearer and began to take up the song.  The Elves looked at me, and laughed.

"Master Perian," they greeted.  "What brought you to our midst this late at night?"

I signaled to Frodo to follow me.  He stood awkwardly outside the ring of dancing firelight.

"I am Bilbo Baggins of The Shire," I bowed low.  "And this is my nephew Frodo."

The Elves turned their bright eyes to Frodo.  The lad was pitifully pale now.  But he cleared his throat, and said quite clearly, "Elen sila lúmenn' omentielvo."  And he bowed low.  The Elves clapped, laughed and praised him.  

It was then that I truly learned what it meant to be proud.

**The End**


End file.
